


The Fear of Knowledge

by rei_c



Series: Knowledge 'Verse [14]
Category: K-Ville, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e04 No Good Deed, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-21
Updated: 2007-12-21
Packaged: 2020-09-02 09:57:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20274064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: When a body gets found in the French Quarter, there's only one person to talk to.





	The Fear of Knowledge

“We got a problem,” LeBeau says, stopping next to the table. 

Boulet looks at his partner, leans back. Cobb looks tired, no more so than the rest of them. Doing their part to help the city isn’t easy, especially after a three-night sting in the Upper Ninth, sitting in the Florida projects waiting for a gangbanger to come out of the building he’d holed up in. Boulet’s been shovelling down jambalaya and beignets since they got back to the office, has powder sticking to the sweat on his upper lip; Cobb’s been nursing the same cup of coffee for three hours, waiting for Embry to tell them it’s time to go home. 

With effort dredged up like something from the bottom of the Mississippi, Boulet grins and says, “Love Tap, we’re the peacekeepers of New Orleans. When _don’t_ we have a problem?” 

Cobb grins, ducks his head before tilting it, looking up at Ginger LeBeau. “What kind of problem?”

LeBeau sighs, flicks her eyes between Boulet and Cobb. Boulet straightens up, says, “Baby, what’s wrong?” because she looks worried, seriously worried. 

“Take a look at these,” LeBeau says. She opens a folder, slides it across the table. The first thing Boulet sees is a photograph, glossy, straight from the crime scene. Cobb glances over, watches as Boulet looks down at the first image. 

Boulet freezes, slides the photograph out of the way with his fingertip, studies the second one. “Where’re we at on this?”

“We’ve already had one of the people in the DA’s office asking about this one, Boulet.” LeBeau glances at Cobb, finally tacks on, “Captain wanted to know if you’re on top of it. Once you’re done, he says you’re off for the next seventy-two. Must be nice, knowing half the city.” 

“Can it wait?” Cobb asks, deciding that the ceiling looks more interesting than the photos. “I don't know about the rest of you, but I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open. Starting a new case like this isn’t the best idea.” 

"Specifics are in there, too," LeBeau adds. “This one checks out, Boulet. Autopsy confirmed the wound patterns. Captain doesn’t want it treated like a homicide unless we’re told to.” 

Boulet shakes his head, stands up and gives his jambalaya a fond, if mournful, glance good-bye. “This can’t wait. C’mon, partner. We’re heading to the Quarter.” 

Cobb doesn't even grumble, just pulls himself together. He stands and drains the dregs of his coffee, throwing the cup away and grabbing the keys out of mid-air when Boulet tosses them over. 

Times like these, when any other person would be grumbling, maybe even going to the captain, Boulet wonders about Cobb, about the time he spent in Afghanistan mostly, about the time he spent in OPP, a little. For all that Cobb's come near to blows with the captain, they have this much in common: neither of them are exactly what they seem, for more reasons than the obvious.

\--

"What's the run-down?" Cobb asks, halfway there. 

Boulet's been glancing through the folder LeBeau left them and he doesn't know whether his partner's given him time to come up with a summary or if Cobb's thought processes really are just running slower than molasses. He's thankful, really; Boulet's walked onto the turf of some of the deadliest men in New Orleans, hell, he's shot at half of them, but dealing with this kind of stuff, it has him wondering if maybe he left a spare rosary in the car last time his wife dragged him to confession. 

"Body found in the Quarter," Boulet says, looking at the autopsy report. "John Doe bled out somewhere else and was moved. A group of tourists found him strung up next to one of those mannequins down Pirate Alley."

Cobb mulls that over, finally asks, "You want me to block traffic on Chartres or try for a spot out front of the Square?"

"Neither," Boulet replies. He can see Cobb looking at him, but doesn't meet his partner's glance. "Dauphine, between Conti and St. Louis. That's where we need to be." 

"Should I ask why?" Cobb asks when he turns onto Rampart, hangs a right at Conti to go back in to the Quarter. 

Even at this time of day, there are tourists everywhere. It's nice to see them, sure, nice to know they're bringing much-needed money back into the city, but Boulet's sick and tired of pandering, not that his level of pandering is ever up to the captain's standards. They come, they spend, they gawk, and then they leave. Some even take residents with them. New Orleans is turning into a tourist town, some kind of freak side-show to the Gulf and the hurricane that damn near destroyed her. There's nothing more he hates than gold-diggers, trying to take advantage of something that killed an entire city's spirit, damn near half the people, walking and talking in bodies that never recovered. 

"Because John Doe had vévés carved all over his body. There's only one person who can clear this up," Boulet says. "Either way, all we have to do is talk to him and we’ll be done with it. Don’t know about you, but I’m ready to go home and sleep." 

Cobb frowns, though whether it's at the tone or the words, Boulet's not sure and doesn't care. Cobb turns right onto Dauphine and parks; Boulet gets out of the car, takes a deep breath, and knocks on a door halfway down the block.

The guy who opens it, some tall motherfucker, gives them each a glance, asks, "Why you here, boyo?" 

Boulet gets shivers, 'cause there ain't no way that voice should be coming out of this man. "Wanna ask Sam a question," Boulet replies, before adding, as respectful as he gets, "Please."

The guy smiles, slow and wet like heat, says, "You hang on, chile, and I'll go check," before ducking back around the door, out of sight.

Cobb's taken aback, confused. Boulet can't really blame him. He’d been confused the first time he met Sam, too, ‘til he figured out what was going on. "Who the hell is Sam and why are we here?" 

"Whenever we have questions about voodoo," Boulet says, slowly, quietly, eyes fixed on the door as much as they can be while he's scanning the street, "legitimate, honest voodoo, we come here. Sam's in charge and he's usually willing to talk." 

"_Voodoo_?" Cobb snorts, shakes his head, puts one hand on the building and rests his weight, eyes narrowed in the sun. "Come on, man. Be straight with me: why're we here?" 

Boulet narrows his eyes and asks, "You telling me you spent time in OPP and you never heard anything about the voodoo practitioners in this city? About Sammy Winchester?" 

"I'm the only one who gets to call him that." 

Boulet's been watching the door but he didn't even see Dean standing there. Chills run up and down his spine; he'll take the family to church on Sunday, no doubt about it.

Cobb double-takes when Boulet nods, holds up his hands, and says, "Sorry, man. We're just here to ask Sam a question. If he has time, of course." 

Dean glances them both over, eyes raking into Boulet before turning to Cobb; he eventually says, "Sam's finishing a discussion right now. You can come in and wait for him if you want."

The invitation's half a challenge as well; Boulet knows it even without seeing the mocking smile on Dean's face, and though he doesn't want to set a foot in that house, he nods, says, "Thanks, Dean. We'd love to. And maybe you can help us." 

\--

Dean takes them upstairs, sits them in a room with a slow-turning ceiling fan and the window open to the balcony. It's a nice enough room, turns even nicer when someone brings in a tray, carrying a pitcher of sweet tea and cookies. 

Cobb pours a glass of tea for himself, moves over and stands on the balcony, looking down Dauphine. Boulet can't see his partner's face, but he can almost see smoke coming out of Cobb's ears, trying to think, put things together and line them up through the dizzying fatigue they're both feeling. 

"Should I ask now or wait for Sam?" Boulet asks, the file in his hands gaining weight, it seems, with every second. 

"Why not do both?" another voice suggests, and Boulet has to stop himself from jumping. The house itself has him spooked, all light and air, nothing dark or foreboding; add in the people who live here, who're visiting, and Boulet's ready to go home and call it a day. "Detective Boulet, it's good to see you again." 

Sam holds out a hand and Boulet doesn't have a choice but to take it. He uses the chance, trying not to think about whose skin he's touching, to study Sam's fingernails, palm. His nails are dirty, chipped, and the fingertips are callused, as is the palm, like he's been holding a hammer for too many hours. Probably has, if everything Boulet's been hearing is true -- Sam came back to help his people through Katrina, has stayed ever since to do what he can to rebuild. If there wasn't voodoo involved, Boulet'd be clamouring for this guy to get a medal. As it is, he'll stand for being left alone. 

"Sam," he says, and takes his hand back as soon as he politely can. Sam doesn't say anything but Boulet wouldn't be surprised if Sam knew exactly what he was thinking. 

People in New Orleans, on both sides of Basin, both sides of Canal, have long memories. They've passed the same stories down through time over étouffée and pie, always have. His grandmammy used to tell him never to go down Prytania Street after dark and never to touch a voodoo priest for too long for fear of spells coming after him later; he's risked Ayana's wrath to tell his daughter the same things. Boulet's never had the courage to ask if that's true, tells himself he doesn't want to risk the fragile truce he's hammered out with Sam and his people. 

Boulet adds, trying to fill the silence, "This is my new partner, Cobb. He came down from Cincinnati." 

"Did he now," Sam says, smile glittering in his eyes, shaking Cobb's hand. Boulet doesn't meet his partner's gaze. Once that's done, and Sam and Dean are standing shoulder-to-shoulder across the room, Sam asks, "What can I do for you, detectives?" 

Cobb, who hasn't looked at the file and who had to have heard stories about the voodoo ‘round New Orleans, just not put any credence in them, says, "Bunch of tourists found some John Doe strung up down Pirate Alley," and stops there. 

Boulet hands over the file, watches as Sam opens it, as the two men look down at the picture on top. Dean stiffens, his nostrils flare, and the one hand Boulet can see, hanging down at Dean’s side, clenches into a fist. 

"Marinette," he hisses. "That _bitch_. You let her out to help rebuild and _this_ is what she does? Takes the chance we all gave her and does this?" 

Sam’s still looking at the photograph and as Dean turns to the wall, slams it with his open palm, Sam moves the paperwork around, looks at the other photos, scans the relevant information. “It might not have been her, Dean,” Sam says. 

Boulet watches, sickeningly fascinated, as Dean turns around, glares at Sam. The rage coming off of his body is almost tangible, thick as the humidity and twice as oppressive. “Don’t tell me we’re going through that shit again, Sam. No matter how much you and Danny hate the idea, Marinette’s a fucking bitch and you _know_ she’s involved with this.” 

"You know who killed him?" Cobb asks, and, for the first time in hours, Boulet hears wakefulness in his partner's voice, Cobb’s brand of impatience. "This Marinette person, she did it? You know where we can find her?" 

Sam looks up, gives Cobb a long enough gaze that Cobb's twitching now, before turning those green eyes on Boulet. 

Everything Boulet's ever heard about Sam runs right through the forefront of his mind: good man, helping to rebuild, runs an honest crew that’ll work anywhere, smart, knows enough about the city to have New Orleans pumping through his blood but wasn't born here, voodoo king, hex you in a minute if he needs to, has a legion of people under his control who'll do anything he tells them, has done things worse than murder. 

What Boulet's heard about Dean doesn't bear thinking about, not seeing the man pacing back and forth across the room, muttering under his breath, death written over his face like his freckles. Some say that the two are lovers, some say brothers, a small number say both, but the one thing they all agree on is that Dean is a very dangerous man. 

Despite the fact that they say Dean’s pulled souls out of people and created armies of revenants, Boulet looks at Sam, still standing there and merely watching Dean, and knows they're wrong. Sam's scarier, all the more so because he isn't outwardly violent. 

Sam’s terrifying for another reason, one that Boulet’s just beginning to see: Sam holds Dean's leash and Dean accepts it without argument. There's no denying that, not when Sam just murmurs Dean's name, and Dean stops, takes a deep breath. Sam will do whatever he has to keep Dean safe, but Dean will do anything to keep Sam happy. Which one’s worse, Boulet doesn’t know. 

"We'll take care of it," Sam says, looking at Boulet. Both of them ignore Dean cracking his knuckles, ignore the questions Cobb's launching at them. Boulet studies Sam’s eyes for as long as he can stand, but he nods. Sam nods back, adds, "I apologise for the inconvenience, but we appreciate you bringing this to our attention." 

Cobb’s given up for now, is halfway to the door, and Boulet’s set to head the same way after he says, “Anytime, Sam.” 

He stops, he and Cobb both stop, when Sam says, strange echoes to his voice, “Naw, chile. Next time, you just call. No need to worry yourselves, coming all this way to ask a simple question.”

Cobb halts at that, turns around slowly, and asks, “There gonna be a next time?” 

Boulet stares at Dean, finally sees the red wristbands, the guns tucked in at his waist, the shot glasses and bottles of rum littering the room’s shelves, for what they are. The look on Dean’s face matches, wild and violent.

“Might be,” Sam says, slow to match the curving smile on his lips. He looks down at the floor, a strangely coquettish gesture from such a large man; Dean’s eyes close as he breathes in and presses close to Sam, seemingly unable to keep away. Sam speaks and sounds Creole, like something transplanted from centuries ago. “But not from Marinette and not from any of ours, chile. People remember, though, and they gonna use it, try to pull one over on y’all. Call my _chwal_ first, save you some time.” 

“We’ll call,” Boulet promises, nodding once, anxious to get away. He can smell something unnatural floating through the air; he might not be a follower, but he believes. 

\--

They get ushered out by the man who’d opened the door and Boulet swallows going down the stairs, feeling pinned in, cornered, by a force bigger than his gun and bravado. Once they’re outside, him and Cobb, and back in the daylight, Boulet lets out a breath and leans against the car, looking up at Sam’s balcony.

Sam’s leaning against the doorway, arms folded and looking outward. There’s no sign he’s taken any notice of the two detectives down on the street. Dean emerges from the billowing curtains a moment later, leaning his forehead against Sam’s shoulder. Boulet watches as Sam wraps an arm around Dean, pulls him close, kisses the top of his head. 

“The fuck was that all about,” Cobb says, more bewildered than angry. 

“Like I said,” Boulet says, swallowing down sunshine with his eyes closed, “whenever we have questions about voodoo, we come here and talk to Sam.” 

\--

When they get the call about the next one, show up at the bar, Boulet feels sweat roll down his back. It’s only been a couple weeks and the thought of going back to that house on Dauphine makes the sweat cool, freeze like ice against his skin. 

All he has to do is look at the body, everything placed around it, and he knows. Not voodoo, and he’s never been more relieved, actually answers some questions once they get back to the office, even manages to laugh. Cobb goes along with it but Boulet’s spent enough time with his new partner now to know that once they’re alone, Cobb’s going to ask questions. Boulet doesn’t care, gives in as gracefully as he can. 

Not voodoo, like the refrain of a song Kaja sang once, not voodoo, not voodoo. 

He doesn’t call Sam.


End file.
